The Keepsake
by Sorne
Summary: Set after Time of the Wolf. Gisburne and the Sheriff escape execution and return to Nottingham, Guy gets the girl, Marion leaves Halstead and the Big Secret is revealed. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

The Keepsake

By Sorne

This story is based around Richard Carpenter's wonderful TV series Robin of Sherwood. For those of you familiar with it, the story is set immediately after Time of the Wolf. For those who are not, I have provided a short background. 

Chapter 1   
  
"It's bloody freezing," grumbled the rough-looking man as he tried to shift closer to the fire.   "Stop pushing, Will!" returned a young red-haired man beside him. They formed part of a group of disreputable-looking fellows huddled around a fire that appeared to be giving off more smoke than heat. All around the forest clearing was silent, save for the sound of water dripping from the bare branches. The other members of the bedraggled band consisted of a tall, bearded bear of a man, a dark, watchful-eyed Saracen and a fat, red-faced friar. All were dressed in matted furs and stained leathers, even the friar hiding his threadbare cassock beneath a coat of rough-cured sheepskins. Weapons were evident everywhere, daggers at belts, swords and longbows within hand's reach. 

"Do you think Robin'll be back soon?" the red-haired youth asked hopefully

"Much!" Will Scarlet replied, exasperated, "That's the twentieth time you've asked that! And for the twentieth time - I DON'T KNOW!"   
  


"Well, I'm hungry, Will!"   
  


"I know, lad." He ruffled Much's hair affectionately. "We all are."   
  


"Bet you never thought you'd see the day you'd be sick of the King's venison, eh Tuck?" The ursine giant asked the friar with a wry smile.   
  


"You're right, John. What wouldn't I give for a lovely, soft, warm loaf of freshly baked bread." 

"Tuck!" rejoined Will. "You're only making it worse!" 

"So, do you think Robin'll bring us some bread, then?" 

"Right! That's it, Much!" Scarlet leapt on him, wrestling him about the clearing. They rolled, tussling down a shallow slope, and came to rest at the feet of a slim, well-made young man. Although similarly dressed, there was something in his strong, clean limbs and fair, handsome face that spoke of a life other than physical labour and hand-to-mouth subsistence.   
  


"Robin!" Much pushed Scarlet away and leapt to his feet, "Did you get any bread?" 

"Yes, Much, I did." With a smile quirking his lips and sparkling in his blue eyes, he clapped Much on the shoulder, then held out a hand to help Will to his feet. Together they climbed the slope to the clearing, where he unslung a heavy bag from his shoulders and handed it to Tuck.   
  


"And not only bread but cheese, eggs, butter and oatmeal."   
  


"Praise be to the Lord," exclaimed Tuck, as he unpacked the haul and began to prepare a meal.   
  


"Robin!" Little John rose to his feet and extended an enormous hand to clasp Robin's. "Welcome back."   
  


"It's good to be back, John." He turned to the Saracen, who nodded a silent greeting. "Nasir."   
  


"Sit down, Robin," urged Tuck. "The fire's finally starting to get going." And indeed, the clearing, so dank and dismal only a few minutes ago, was now cheerful, not only with flickering tongues of flame but with the warmth of comradeship. 

"I've brought something else as well," continued Robin, settling himself on a log by the fire. "Huntingdon is full of news of our dear friends, Gisburne and the Sheriff."   
  


"The King's hanged them?" Scarlet asked eagerly. 

"No, Will." Robin's mouth twisted wryly. "They're to be pardoned." 

"What!" Will's astonishment was mirrored on every face. "But they were to be executed. You said so. How can they get pardoned just like that?" 

"It's not 'just like that,' Will. They will have to buy their pardons. King John needs money for his war and this is an ideal opportunity for him. He's set Gisburne's pardon at 1000 gold marks and the Sheriff's at 4000." 

"Pheeeoooww!" John whistled. "That's a fortune! Do you think the Sheriff can raise it?" 

"I think between him and the Abbot Hugo they can probably manage the 4000, but I don't see him forking out 1000 for Gisburne." 

"Will Gisburne be able to raise it himself?" asked Tuck. 

"I doubt it," answered Robin, looking pensively into the flames. "His estates can't be worth much over 100 marks a year. He's got no family and I don't see him having many friends with that kind of money." 

"Good!" Will spat. "At least we'll be rid of one of them. When will it happen? I'd like to be there. To see Gisburne dance on the end of a rope." He smiled savagely. 

"It won't be a hanging," answered Tuck quietly. "He's a nobleman. It'll be the headsman's axe." He looked fixedly at Robin, who continued to gaze at the fire. 

"The fine is due by the end of the month. They're to stay in gaol at Newark until it's paid." 

"Hey!" Scarlet became animated. "What if we were to steal the money for De Rainualt's ransom. Hugo will have to get it to Newark somehow. Then we'd be rid of them both!" 

"No Will," Robin answered. "We've more important things to do." 

"More important? What could possibly be more important than seeing those two villains getting the chop?" 

"Helping the villagers through the winter. Since Gulnar's men destroyed all the grain hidden in Hobbe's Cave, they don't have enough to last the winter."   
  


"What about the stuff we got from Grimstone?" asked John.   
  


"It's a help, John, but not enough to last until spring."   
  


"Well, then," interjected Will, "if we steal the Sheriff's ransom we can use that to buy them enough grain to last ten winters!"   
  


"But that's just the point, Will. There's no grain to buy, never mind how much money we have. We need to steal some from somewhere." His forehead furrowed in thought. "Now King John is at Warwick but the grain and the army are still at Newark, although they'll be marching in a few days. The way I see it we have two choices. Either to attack the granary at Newark, which will be heavily guarded, or to ambush the supply wagons while they're on the move with the army."   
  


"I'd suggest the ambush, Robin." John's deep voice was thoughtful. "We could block the road with a fallen tree, or create a mud hole for the wagons to get stuck in."   
  


"That's good, John," replied Robin. "Now, it would need to be somewhere that wouldn't block the road too much, so the soldiers could carry on past it but the other wagons couldn't."   
  


Scarlet rubbed his chin moodily. "If it was mud, they'd have to unload the wagon to shift it but, still, it's risky. I mean, we ain't talking about the Sheriff's dolts here. These are professional soldiers and they ain't going to leave the wagon unattended."   
  


"Well what do you suggest, Will? Attacking the granary in Newark?"   
  


"Nah, I like that even less. There must be another way to get that grain."   
  


Much looked up from where he had been poking the fire. "Robin?" he began uncertainly.   
  


"What is it, Much?"   
  


"Well, it's just that the grain won't be going with the army."   
  


Everyone looked at him in surprise.   
  


"What do you mean?"   
  


"You make bread out of flour not grain."   
  


"Of course!" Robin exclaimed, slapping Much on the back. "Much! You're a genius!" Much grinned with pleasure and embarrassment. "They'll have to mill the grain first, and that means taking it out of Newark." 

"Well done, lad," John congratulated him. 

"Not bad, not bad," conceded Scarlet. 

  
  
* * * * * * * * *   
  


"That which was lost can be found, that which was broken, mended." 

The bright mist swirled around the head of Herne the Hunter, silhouetting his horns against the dark walls of the cave. His black eyes shone, gazing into another world, into another time. The air was heavy with strange, sweet smells. 

"That which was lost? Do you mean Marion?" Robin asked, frowning. The hope, unbidden, rose in him, Was there a way to get her back?   
  


"Open your heart; this will be the only chance."   
  


The only chance. His mind was racing...What was it? "When will it be, Herne? How will I know?"   
  


But already the light was fading, the mist darkening, and, once more, he sat in a dank, seeping cave opposite a worn and aging man. His face troubled, Robin rose silently to his feet and left the place of dreams.   
  
  


Once outside he breathed deeply, expelling the last of the cave's strange perfume. The glade was peaceful and quiet, the soft winter sunshine filtering through the branches and dappling the ground, the water running into the pool behind him, sounding sharp and clear. By contrast his heart and mind were racing and roiling. Marion might be brought back, but there would be only one chance. When? God, he wanted it so much, he almost wished Herne hadn't told him. The hope was fuel to the smouldering embers of his pain.   
  


As he made his way back through the forest he thought of Marion. Her gentle mischievous eyes, her beautiful hair spun from autumn leaves, destined to be hidden under a stiff wimple or, worse, shorn off. Her lithe, free limbs never to run and leap through the green of the forest but to kneel cramped on the cold flagstones of Halstead Priory. 

"Robin." Tuck's quiet voice woke him from his reverie.   
  


"Tuck!" He clasped his fat friend by the shoulders. "I've just come from Herne and I think there might be a way to get Marion back."   
  


Tuck frowned. "What did he say?"   
  


"That which was lost can be found."   
  


"That which was lost?"   
  


"It's Marion! It must be! We haven't lost anyone else, have we?"   
  


"What else did he say?"   
  


"That there would be only one chance." Robin was pacing up and down with barely suppressed energy. "I must go to Halstead and see her. Come on, Tuck, let's find the others." He sprang away to head down the track. 

"Robin!" Tuck called. "Wait, I want to talk to you about something."   
  


"What is it, Tuck?" Robin demanded impatiently. "Can't it wait?"   
  


"No, Robin, it can't." Tuck was implacably serious.   
  


Robin came over reluctantly. "Can we at least walk back while we talk?"   
  


"All right, but slowly."   
  


They walked together in silence for a short way. Then Tuck took a deep breath "Look, Robin, you won't like what I'm about to say, but I want to know what you're going to do about Gisburne."   
  


Robin stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Tuck with an incredulous expression on his face. "Do about Gisburne? What on earth is it you think I can do?"   
  


"He's your brother, Robin. You can't just let him die." Tuck spoke with quiet conviction.   
  


Robin's eyes narrowed and his voice became hard. "And what exactly would you have me do, Brother Tuck? Break into Newark gaol and carry out a daring rescue? Beg the King for mercy on his behalf?" 

Tuck looked straight at him. "You could pay the ransom." 

Robin laughed harshly. "It may have escaped your notice, Tuck, but I don't happen to have 1000 marks to hand just at the moment."   
  


The Friar's voice was quiet. "You could ask your father for it."   
  


Robin stared at his friend in disbelief, "You're not serious. You can't possibly be suggesting that I tell my father Gisburne is his son."   
  


"Don't you think he has a right to know? Don't you think he has a right to decide for himself whether or not to pay the money?"   
  


Robin ran a hand violently through his hair, striding up and down. He stopped and spun to face Tuck. "Gisburne is a vicious, arrogant and narrow-minded man, just the type my father most despises! Do you think he'll thank me for telling him that…that recidivist is his son? Not to even mention the fact that Gisburne is our enemy and has deserved this fate many times over!"   
  


Tuck continued to look Robin straight in the eye. "You must do as your heart tells you, Robin."   
  


Robin turned abruptly and, without another word, stalked off in the direction of the camp.   
  


His eager and optimistic mood destroyed by Tuck's words, Robin strode up the forest path. His emotions seethed within him: pain, guilt, but mostly anger. Anger at Tuck for exposing the wound, anger at Lady Gisburne for revealing the secret, anger at Gisburne, anger at his father, but, most of all, blind, white-hot anger at the cursed twist of fate that had caused this dreadful abscess in his soul. What was any man supposed to do with the knowledge that his most hated enemy was in fact his half-brother? And not only that, but the knowledge that the circumstances of his birth had contributed directly to his character. 

If he, Robert, had grown up in a household of hate, fear and pain, would he be any better? Then there was the choice to be made. Did he leave Guy to be executed by the King, and rid not only himself, but all his followers, the villagers and their families, of a cruel tyrant responsible for killings, torture and repression, or did he give his father the chance to save this unknown son, a son born to the woman he had loved so dearly in his youth? He pushed the thoughts aside, down into the deepest part of him. There were more pressing matters to consider. The ambush to steal back the grain was to take place at the Kelham mill, two miles outside Newark, in three days time. Will and John were to recruit some of the more reliable villagers to help, and tomorrow he would go to Halstead and see Marion.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

  
  


By the next morning snow had begun to fall, thick heavy flakes drifting down from the iron grey sky and, by late afternoon, the world was muffled in a deep, white fleece. The forest was quiet: birds silent and reproachful, small mammals curled tight and still in winter burrows. The road through Sherwood that led to Halstead Priory was pristine and untrodden, save for the occasional delicate imprint of a deer's crossing. Robin's step was sure even through the deep snow. He moved briskly, anticipation of the meeting to come carrying him easily over ditches, drifts and fallen trees. He still wasn't sure what he was going to say to Marion. He only knew that whatever happened he was incomplete without her, his life in Sherwood cold and lacking without the warm smile of her love.   
  


He knew she had suffered a terrible shock when she had seen the body of his evil double, the man of clay created in his image by the wicked Gulnar. She had thought him dead, that the past was repeating itself, that she could never safely give her heart. And he couldn't promise her that it would never happen again...He could only tell her how hollow his life was without her.   
  


He had almost reached the open weald that stretched up to Halstead when he heard the horses behind him. Slipping effortlessly into the trees, he blended motionlessly with the shadowy trunks. There were four riders, their horses weary and spent, stumbling through the heavy snow. Two were rough-looking soldiers dressed in well-worn leather gambesons and steel helmets. They were armed with swords and crossbows, mounted on rough ponies, and had the hard-eyed look of mercenaries. The third man was middle-aged, of stocky build, with white hair wisping from beneath his helmet. He was better dressed, with a plain dark tabard and thick cloak covering his suit of chain mail. His face was dark and weather-beaten, his eyes keen and watchful. 

It was the fourth rider that drew Robin's attention, however. Obviously a woman, she was swathed in a heavy fur cloak. Expensively gloved hands lightly controlled a fine mount, whose rich harness glinted in the fading light. Her head and face were muffled against the cold by a soft hood of silver fox. As they reached the edge of the forest, the middle- aged man turned to the others.   
  


"There it is: Halstead Priory. We'll rest there tonight and carry on in the morning. God willing we can reach Newark tomorrow." The others did not answer but merely pushed their horses on up the hill towards the grey walls of the Priory. Robin looked thoughtfully after them from his hiding place, waiting until the travellers had entered the Priory gate before hurrying on himself.   
  


The Abbess wasn't particularly pleased to see Robin. Although Marion was only a novice and, thus, technically allowed visitors, the Abbess was of the opinion that the outside world was best left there, especially when it took the form of a handsome young man. In addition, the presence of the four travellers made her more conscious of Robin's outlawry. She frowned as she showed him into a small, cold room.   
  


"You can wait here. I'll have Marion sent for." She paused, as though to add something else but, obviously thinking better of it, went out, closing the door. Robin looked around the spartan room, a narrow cot and a wooden stool were the only furnishings, the window was shuttered against the falling night, the sole illumination from a guttering rushlight. Softly, he walked to the heavy oak door and eased it open a crack, listening.   
  


In the main guest refectory where ordinary travellers were housed, the man in the blue tabard was growling at the nuns.   
  


"Come on, hurry up and get a room ready! Can't you see my lady is exhausted? Make sure it's warm and the bed isn't damp! Where's that wine? Quickly now!"   
  


The lady in question was reclining in a chair beside the blazing fire. She had removed her furs to reveal an expensive gown and fur-lined pelisse. Her glossy dark hair was covered by a silk head-dress, one corner of which was drawn over the lower half of her face and fastened with a curiously wrought silver pin.   
  


A young novice hurried up to her. "Please, my lady, a room is ready for you now." She looked up as the tabarded man moved towards her and offered his hand. She took it gratefully. "Thank you, Gilbert." Her voice was low, and hoarse with fatigue. He motioned peremptorily to the novice to bring the furs. The young nun guided them up the corridor to the guest room, holding a wax candle so its rich, clear light gleamed against the stone walls and floor of the priory. The same golden light illuminated the two travellers as they approached Robin, his eye still to the crack in the door...an eye that narrowed thoughtfully as they passed. Soon, however, his eye was drawn to another figure in the corridor, a slight, graceful figure softly dressed in the pure white linen of a novice. His heart leapt as he recognised Marion and he pulled back into the room, allowing her to enter.   
  


"Hello, Robin." Her voice was quiet, and her face composed. Only in her eyes was there a hint of wistful sadness.   
  


"Marion." It came out almost as a whisper, echoing the empty longing and blossoming hope filling his heart.   
  


She sat on the edge of the cot, clasping her hands in her lap, unable to quite meet his gaze.   
  


"How is everyone?"   
  


"They're all well and send their love. Much has grown another two inches, and so has Tuck!"   
  


She smiled faintly but was silent. He knelt beside her, gently taking her hands in his.   
  


"Marion, we miss you so much. Sherwood is a dark, cold place without you. My life is a dark, cold place without you."   
  


She looked up, the hint of a tear on the lash of one eye, her voice faint, "I miss you too, Robin, and Sherwood. Life here isn't quite what I had imagined." She smiled faintly. "There's a price to be paid for leaving the world and it's a little higher than I expected."   
  


"Aren't you happy, then?"   
  


Her face was thoughtful. "No. I feel safe, and contented, and I keep busy, but happy? No, not happy."   
  


"Then why stay? You know you can return to Sherwood any time, Marion. We all miss you. It's like a part of us is missing, a very special, beautiful part."   
  


"Oh, Robin!" She stood up, pulling her hands away, and walking to the window, "Part of me wants to be with you but I'm afraid. There's a price to be paid for happiness too, and I don't know if I can meet it. I have been healing here in Halstead, but the wound was very deep and I don't know if I will ever really recover." 

"Then let me take you somewhere safe, somewhere far away from Nottingham, from Sherwood, from the past. Let us make a new life together." As he said it, Robin felt his heart yearn, to live quietly with Marion, safe and happy, rearing children and growing old together. The dream was almost tangible, filling the room. He could see it reaching out to Marion, touching her frightened, hurting heart with its sunlit promise. He crossed the room and took her in his arms, very gently. Reaching up a hand to trace the lightest of touches on her face, he looked into her moss-green eyes. "I love you, Marion, as I have never loved anyone in all my life. I will make any sacrifice for your happiness. I left my family and my previous life. I will leave Sherwood and this life too. And if you ask me to go away from you then I will, but only the knowledge that it is your wish will enable me to bear life without you."   
  


The tear in Marion's eye spilled silently down her cheek, silvery in the dim light. "I don't know, Robin. Part of me wants to be with you, part of me wants to be in Sherwood and part of me wants to stay here where it is safe. I'm just not strong enough to choose. One day I will be, and then either I'll take my vows or I'll come to you. I have to make sure I take the right path."   
  


His finger gently caught the tear and he touched it to his lips. "I understand." He released her and stepped back towards the door. "I will wait for you, Marion, until the very last minute of my life. You know where to find me."   
  


"In Sherwood." Her voice barely brushed the air.   
  


"In Sherwood." He echoed her words, the faintest smile ghosting his lips, then slipped silently out the door, the touch of her tear an ache on his skin.   
  


Robin made camp alone that night, wrapped warmly in his cloak, the rustlings and cries of the night as familiar to him as the sound of his own breath. Sleep, however, eluded him, and he sat gazing, unseeing, into the embers of the fire. His heart still ached from seeing Marion, his ears still echoed with her words, but his love sustained the hope of her, and there was nothing more he could do except wait. As the night drew on, he found himself hearing other words, words that awakened a deep pain, a gut-churning sickness. The harder he tried to push them away, the more they tormented him. Eventually, in the cold, stark light of morning, he accepted the inevitable and turned his steps towards Huntingdon and his father. 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

The grille was set high in the heavy wooden door and Robert de Rainault, Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, had to stand on tiptoe to see in. The room was similar to the one he had been occupying until just a few hours ago; sparsely furnished, a table, a couple of chairs, and a cot in one corner. Light from a narrow loophole and warmth from a glowing brazier rendered it almost comfortable and a plate of food and jug of wine sat on the table. One of the chairs was occupied by a tall, broad-shouldered man, his feet listlessly propped on the other. Beneath the blond forelock a pair of startling blue eyes stared at a perfectly innocuous spot on the floor and a sensuous mouth sneered contempt at the world. 

"Still the same, then?" de Rainault addressed the guard beside him. 

"Yes, my lord, although he has been eating a little." 

"Hrrmph. Well, at least he's changed out of those disgusting furs." 

"Come on, brother! I can't understand what you're so concerned about Gisburne for anyway." This last was from a sharp-featured man luxuriously dressed in the purple of an Abbot of the Church. "You've done nothing but complain about him for years." 

The Sheriff turned and glared at his brother, his weasel-like features twisting with annoyance. "That doesn't mean I'll be happy to see him under the axe. Subconsciously he rubbed his own neck. "After all he does have certain...qualities that'll be hard to replace." 

"Well, you'll just have to replace them because it's been tough enough scraping together the money for you, never mind finding another 1000 marks. Now, for God's sake can we go. Anyone would have thought you'd be glad to get out of this place."

The Sheriff cast a last glance at the door of Guy's cell then, scowling, hurried after his brother. He would have found it difficult to explain just why he felt bad about leaving his steward in this situation. After all, only a few weeks ago he had been ready to offer up Gisburne's head to save his own. Something had happened in the smoke-filled madhouse that had been Grimston Abbey. Standing on the blood-smeared altar steps, Gulnar's crazed Fenris worshippers howling for the sacrifice, Sir Guy had held the Sheriff's life balanced on his blade – and had chosen to spare it. In that single moment of time, when their eyes had met, it was as though a strange bond had been acknowledged. Now, having practically beggared himself to raise his own ransom, he was leaving Gisburne to die, and he didn't feel at all good about it. 

In the cell, Sir Guy of Gisburne was oblivious to the brothers' altercation. On the table the food was almost untouched as, uncharacteristically, was the wine. He was reliving the events of the past weeks, trying to make sense of it all. Beneath the long tunic his left shoulder bore the livid scars of his Fenris initiation. He was sure the claws that had made them had been drugged: the days that had followed were a haze of wild emotions, anger, hate and blood-lust, truly as if the beast within him had been released. He remembered the bright blade, the knife Grendal had offered him to take de Rainault's life and bind himself to Fenris forever. He had had a thousand reasons to kill the Sheriff but he hadn't. Perhaps the drug had been wearing off, perhaps he had remembered when de Rainault had taken him back after the fiasco with Philip Mark, perhaps it was because Nottingham was the nearest place he had to a home, or perhaps it was simply that the enemy of his enemy must be his friend? He had been so close, so sure that this time he had won, that the body in the cart was that of Robin Hood, that he would at last win the King's favour and maybe…..He pushed the thoughts away, the taste of defeat bitter in his mouth. There was no use thinking of it. He had lost. Lost the fight, lost the King's favour, lost any chance of her, and, to all intents and purposes, lost his life. 

It had been a bad winter, that year his father had died or, rather, the man the rest of the world considered to be his father had died. It had been over ten years since he had last been home, but riding out from the trees, anticipation twisting in him like a live thing, the stone tower and bailey wall, of which his father had been so proud, seemed unchanged. The heavy gate stood open, but the rutted, frozen courtyard was deserted. Reining in his horse, he pushed back his mail hood and sat for a few minutes, looking round at the familiar timber buildings and up at the dark walls. A thousand memories and emotions whirled through him as he contemplated the place he had left as a child and to which he now returned as man and master. A sound from the stables caught his ear and he turned to see an elderly man hobbling towards him. 

"May I help 'ee, sir?" He limped closer, peering with rheumy eyes. Eyes which widened with pleased recognition. "Master Guy!" The mouth stretched in a toothless grin. "After all these years, it's Master Guy! Or rather I should say 'my lord'. Welcome home, welcome home." 

Gisburne smiled somewhat self-consciously and swung down from his horse. "Hello, Eadric." 

"Here let me get your horse. BRET!" A lanky, snot-faced lad of about nine emerged from the stable. "Quickly, lad, take my Lord of Gisburne's horse into the stables. Come on in, my lord. No point hanging about here getting cold." He lurched off up the wooden stairs to the first-floor entrance to the tower, Gisburne following, and pushed open the solid wooden door. "Mother Godrun! Mother Godrun! Wait till ye see who's here!" 

Gisburne entered the hall, the top of his head brushing the stone lintel of the doorway. It wasn't a large hall, poorly lit but warm. Everything seemed smaller but was otherwise unchanged. The same faded wall hangings and wooden furnishings, the same smells of bread and floor rushes overlaying damp stone, and the same ample figure bustling out from the kitchen. 

"Is that you, Eadric? What do you want now…? Oh!" She raised a startled hand to her mouth, over which a slowly-forming smile started to beam. "Lord a'mercy, look who it is! All grown up into such a fine, strong man! Look at ye: a proper knight, with spurs and everything!" She dabbed at her eyes with a grubby sleeve. 

"Hush now, Mother, and get some wine. Sir Guy's had a long ride and it's right cold out." 

"Aye, aye, of course. What am I thinking of? Sit yourself down, and I'll be right back!" She disappeared into the kitchen and could be heard clattering and yelling at some unfortunate underling. Guy crossed to the hearth and stood for a moment contemplating the heavy carved chair beside it, the chair that had been his father's. Taking a deep breath he sat down, running his hands forward along the arm rests and clasping the ends. He exhaled slowly, relaxing into the seat, stretched out his legs and allowed himself a rare smile. This was his place now. He was master here, and the old fears and memories just dust to be swept away. 

The next morning he had risen early, having slept in the smaller of the two upper rooms. The other, more comfortable and with its own fireplace, had been his mother's. It had been prepared for him but when, late the previous night, he had opened that familiar door and stepped in, the forest of memories had pressed him too closely and he had retreated to the colder comfort of the lesser chamber. Looking out from the window, he could see the snow falling over the forest, whiting the roofs of the buildings below. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the cold air. It was going to be a good day. 

Later that afternoon, just as he was finishing checking the winter feed, Bret had come hurrying in through the gate. He was leading a fine palfrey, expensively caparisoned, evidently a lady's mount. 

"Quick! Come quick!" he gabbled. "She's fallen. There's blood. Oh dear, I think maybe she's dead." 

Eadric hastened up. "Wassat, lad? Speak slowly now. What's happened?" 

Bret took a deep breath. "I were in the forest with Derman, getting wood, and we sees this horse, just hanging about like. And we thinks, that's odd. Where's its rider? And we went an' looked and there she were just lying there in the snow. She got blood on her and I dunno maybe she's dead." 

"Whereabouts was this?" demanded Sir Guy. 

"About two or three miles up the Skipton road. Derman be still there." 

"Bret, get a bridle on my horse. Eadric, get a cart and some blankets, and send someone to St. Morvans for the infirmary sister!" Snatching up his cloak from the granary, he had mounted and set off at a gallop along the track towards Skipton. It was Derman he saw first, standing like a half-wit in the middle of the road. Then, as he pulled to a stop, he saw her lying under the trees. Dismounting in a flash, he knelt down. There was indeed blood, sticky in the dark hair and staining the frosted leaves, but scalp wounds always bled freely. He gingerly felt the skull: a contusion on the left side but no fracture. Good. He gently lifted a hand, cold. He bent his head to listen. She breathed, a faint sighing, barely brushing his cheek. He pulled off his cloak and wrapped the soft, warm folds around her, lifting her off the cold ground and supporting her against his shoulder. 

"Be she dead then?" Derman came diffidently up behind him. 

"No, she's alive but she won't be for long if that blasted wagon doesn't hurry up. Go and make sure they find us!" he barked. 

"Aye, my lord!" Derman scurried away along the road, shouting and hallooing. 

As the sound retreated, the forest became very still. His horse snuffled and stamped in the icy air. The sound of the woman's breath filled his ears, interweaving with his own. He reached up a hand to smooth the damp hair from her face, the left side of which was swollen, the red-black bruising already forming. She looked about nineteen, and her clothes were of the finest quality although she was not dressed for travelling. Skipton Castle was nine or ten miles away so it seemed most likely she had come from there, but what was she doing out alone in the forest? The light was fading, gloom creeping in from the forest and snow falling thickly on the track. His arm was aching and he was really starting to notice the lack of his cloak by the time Eadric and the others arrived. 

Sister Bridget was easily the tallest woman Gisburne had ever seen. Her face, lean and lined, her eyes, grey and perceptive, only a few inches lower than his own. After overseeing his carrying the injured woman into his mother's chamber, she had cleared the room and closed the door before even Mother Godrun could protest. For the next hour only the novice who had accompanied her had been permitted entrance, scurrying in and out with hot water and fresh linen. Now she stood sternly before him, arms folded formidably, eyes fixed firmly on his face. 

"So you have absolutely no idea who she is?" 

"None at all. One of the lads came across her while he was fetching wood. I've sent word to Skipton Castle, however, as it seems likely she's come from there." 

"Hrrmph." Sister Bridget looked disapproving. "You're sure you've never seen her before today?" 

"Quite sure." Guy frowned. "Why does it matter?" 

After scrutinising him closely for another minute or two, she seemed satisfied. "Come with me." He followed her into the other chamber. The fire was blazing warmth and the high, curtained bed now occupied by the still, unmoving patient. 

"She has sustained a blow to the skull, most likely caused by the fall from the horse. The unconsciousness is not unusual and I expect it to pass in a few days. The bruising to the face should also heal quickly. Fortunately you found her before she suffered too much from the cold." The nun pursed her lips, looking down at her charge. Then she eyed Sir Guy thoughtfully. "These are not her only injuries." 

He looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" 

By way of reply, she reached down and carefully drew back the blankets from the patient's upper body. Half-rolling her to expose the back, she gently eased the loose linen shift, baring the area around the shoulder blade. Guy did not need her to tell him that the revealed scarlet fretwork, with its attendant wreathing of black and yellow, was the result of a beating. Involuntarily he reached out a hand but drew it back without touching her. 

"How long ago?" His voice was uncharacteristically quiet. 

"No more than two days, and probably a week or two before that as well." 

His face hardened, blue eyes like ice, as he felt the touch of a ghost's passing, like a whisper, on his heart. 

Sister Bridget busied herself settling her charge. "She is not to be moved for at least two weeks, preferably three. I have given instructions for the preparation of medicines but rest and quiet are what is really needed. I will stay here tonight and, providing she hasn't worsened, return to St. Morvens in the morning." She bustled out. 

Silently he stood looking down at the sleeping form. The damaged side of her face was in shadow, her skin pale and the dark hair iridescent in the firelight. He found himself wondering what colour her eyes were. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

As soon as she awakened Gisla had known she was in an unfamiliar place. The bed hangings were of good quality, as were the linen covered pillows under her head, but nothing like as fine as she was used to. It was also quiet. She could hear the crackling of the fire but no chattering maidservants, bustling kitchen staff or shouts from the courtyard. More than that, despite the ache in her head, she felt strangely at peace. A warm safe feeling, like when she dreamt of being home again, with her father still alive. She lay as still as she could that the spell might not be broken, lulled by whatever magic there was in this place. Her eyes were just closing again when she heard a slight rustle of clothing. Curiosity rippled her languor and she turned her head slightly to see a young man standing in the window recess looking out. He was tall, with thick blond hair that shone in the firelight, and the quality of his long blue tunic marked him out as a nobleman. As she watched, he drew back from the window, turned and paced slowly into the centre of the room. When he drew close enough to observe her he stopped. A stiff half-smile dimpled one cheek but his eyes slid off her. 

"You're awake." His voice was precise and resonant, like the lowest string of a harp. 

"Where am I?" she started to ask but a strange, stiff soreness in her face stopped her. She raised a hand, weak as a child's, to touch her left cheek and explore the bittersweet tenderness. "What happened to me?" 

"You had a fall from your horse. One of the serving lads found you." 

"How long have I been here?" 

"This is the third day. Sister Bridget said you should stay for two or three weeks. Don't worry. I sent word to Skipton to say that you were here." 

Gisla frowned. "My horse, is she all right?" He smiled his halting smile again but with a more direct look this time. 

"She is being taken good care of. A very fine animal." 

"Thank you." Gisla smiled weakly, her sudden tiredness showing in her face. He was instantly contrite. 

"Forgive me, my lady. I have wearied you too much. Let me get the maid-servant for you." He turned towards the door, then paused, his face slightly puzzled. "I had a message from Skipton confirming your identity but no one has come. Is there anyone you would like me to send for?" 

"No." She smiled sadly. "No one." 

He nodded, his eyes thoughtful, then turned again to go. 

"Wait." 

He looked back. 

"You haven't told me who you are." 

Again the awkward smile. "Sir Guy of Gisburne." The blond head dipped in a slight bow and then he was gone from the room. 

"So how long have you been living at Skipton?" 

"Oh, three or four years, I suppose. I've been a ward of the Crown ever since my father died. I've had several guardians during that time. It's quite lucrative, you see, administering my lands on behalf of the King." Gisla's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "God knows what sort of state they'll be in when I finally get them back." 

She had been at Gisburne for over a week now and was sufficiently recovered to sit up by the fire. She had eagerly accepted Sir Guy's offer to spend the evenings with her. Lacking her music and books, she had felt the days of her convalescence pass very slowly. She still wasn't quite sure what to make of the taciturn young man, with his strong good looks and reluctant smile. He wasn't unfriendly and seemed genuinely pleased she was here but was clearly unpractised in courtly graces. Starved of good company, she found herself prattling on. "I'm surprised the King hasn't married me off already. I suppose he must find the income too useful. Still, sooner or later, someone will make him an offer he can't refuse." 

"Don't you mind having no choice in the matter. I always thought young women wanted to marry for love." 

Try as she might she was unable to keep the contempt from her voice. "Fairy tales for idle afternoons. Why should I torment myself dreaming of love when it's bribes and the King's favour that'll win my hand? I had the love of my father as a child and count myself fortunate for that, but as for marriage the only attraction it holds for me is the chance to be mistress of my own lands." 

He seemed a little taken aback by her vehemence, his forehead frowning in confusion. She smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Sorry. What about you? You can't have been here long or I'm sure I would have seen you before now." 

"I'm in service with the Sheriff of Nottingham, and I spend most of my time there. I came here a few days ago to set things in order following the death of my father." 

"You lost your father?" She remembered her own father's death, the stifling sick room and the dreadful battle he had fought to try and stay with her. She lifted her eyes to look into his face. "I'm sorry." 

"I'm not." His voice was harsh, his face closed. "His death meant nothing to me beyond the inheritance of this place." 

"But that's terrible!" She couldn't keep the shocked disapproval from her voice. 

His face twisted in a bitter sneer. "Yes, isn't it? The only thing I ever had to thank my father for was his name, and even that was only given to save his own face." 

She recoiled from his anger, embarrassment reddening her face as the implication of his words hit home. She looked away from him into the fire. At a loss for words, he abruptly pushed his chair back, stood up and strode towards the door. 

"No, wait!" She sprang to her feet, fingers intertwining uncertainly. "I'm sorry. I…" He turned back towards her, and she crossed the room to look up into his face. "I didn't mean to offend you." Desperate to somehow assuage the wound she had unwittingly opened, she continued. "My happy life ended with my father's death. I forget that it's not that way for everyone. But now you have your inheritance, you are free to choose your life. You can forget the past." 

The blue eyes riveted hers, the coldness softening a little. "Good night, my lady."   
  


The days passed peacefully, the world still muffled in thick snow. Although rapidly gaining her strength, Gisla still tired easily and spent most of her day resting. Looking out from her window in the keep, surrounded by the silent white forest, it was almost as if some strange spell was at work, as if winter itself were conspiring to hide her, deep in a magical world where time did not pass. She found herself particularly drawn to the window during the late afternoon, when she could watch for a black horse and rider returning from outlying farm or village. 

She told herself it was only boredom that made her strain to catch a glimpse of that now familiar blue cloak and gleaming head, that she only imagined the dry mouth and racing heart that accompanied the sound of his step on the stair. Wakening in the darkest part of the night, a time which had always held the greatest fears for her, when she would feel herself slipping away, some essential part of her fading, and she would be driven to some rebellious act of individuality, which would earn her another punishment, she now felt only the strange peace of the place. Lying safe and warm, she would hear the wind tugging at the shutters, the roar of the wind in the chimney, and know that he lay only a wall's thickness away, that a single cry would bring him to her door, and her spirit would quiet and her eyes fill again with sleep. 

She had known it could not last forever, though she had pushed thoughts of the future away, refusing to tarnish her silver sanctuary with foreshadowing. So when the day came that the sky cleared and the sun shone out his bright presage of spring, she understood the spell was broken and was prepared for the messenger from Skipton who bore her recall. That afternoon as she watched the road, the snow was already fading from the trees, the white silence subverted by dripping water and wakeful birds. The sight of him cantering easily out from the forest brought the first warning pains. The sound of his firm tread on the stairs and confident knock at her door twisted the knife in her heart, and his blue gaze and half smile told her she was truly lost. So much for her clever words and haughty heart. Here she was, as foolish as any giddy serving girl, betrayed by her spirit, which leapt like a summer swallow calling its fellow to dance. 

Something of her confusion must have shown on her face because the sight of it drew him up short. He frowned. "What's the matter?" 

Struggling to control her emotions, she turned away to look out the window. Taking a deep breath and steeling her voice to a steady tone she replied, "I had a message from Skipton today. Seeing as I'm recovered and the roads have cleared my return is expected. An escort will be sent for me tomorrow." She turned towards him and, curbing her heart with an iron will, forced herself to speak casually. "I am very grateful for your kind hospitality, my lord. I hope that we will have the pleasure of your company at Skipton before your return to Nottingham. I am sure the earl will be anxious to thank you in person for all your help." 

Try as she might, she was unable to keep her eyes from his, and the jagged look of reproach tore at her. She felt her control faltering. "Forgive me, Sir Guy. I am very tired this evening and I should like to retire early." As quick as a snapped bowstring he turned, snatched open the door, and was gone from the room. Gisla clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, and thrust them against her eyes. "Stop it! Stop it!" she hissed at herself. "Look at you, you stupid girl! Falling for blue eyes and a handsome face like any witless milkmaid on market day. What did you think was going to happen, eh? Look at this place. He can't afford you. There's no use thinking about it and that's that! He won't get you Kirtenfield and your lands back. You've a promise to keep, remember." Furiously she dragged her sleeve over her eyes, crossed to the table and poured out a cup of wine. The sight of the second, unused cup threatened her resolve but she turned her back on it and took a seat at the fire. 

That night when she awoke in the dark, there was no unseen comfort, just the ache of unshed tears in her throat and eyes. Unable to bear the dance of memories and echo of unsaid words, she rose and, wrapping herself against the night air, walked to the window and opened the shutters. The night was cold and clear, the sky adorned with a thousand brilliant stars, frost glittering on the trees and buildings. No sound disturbed the motionless silence. She sucked in an icy breath and expelled it, the cold cleansing and waking her. For the first time since coming here, she felt the familiar urge to escape, to do something secret, be somewhere alone. Easing open the chamber door and slipping through it, she was only a few steps to the solid wooden ladder. 

At the top the trapdoor to the roof was heavy but well-maintained, opening easily and silently. Another short climb took her to the hoard, a wooden platform running around the inside of the tower wall. She stood for a moment to catch her breath, searing her lungs with mouthfuls of cold air. Above her stretched the vault of stars and, when she walked to the battlements to look down, the hoar-clad forest glistened like an argent sea. Silence, icy as the air, was unbroken. Not an owl's cry or fox's bark disturbed the frozen night. Leaning her head back against the cold stone, she gazed at the sharp sky, unshed tears pressing against her eyes. Sadness surged within her, forcing itself out in an anguished gasp. "Oh, God, I wish…I wish…" 

"What?" His voice, strong in the night, shocked her back to silence. Her body pressed back against the wall. Moving easily towards her from the shadows, he spoke again. "What is it you wish?" He was in front of her now, his presence filling the silence, strong hands gripping her arms. His voice, harsh, was very close. His breath, sweet with wine, was warm on her skin. His eyes fastened on her face. "What could it be that a rich young lady like yourself could possibly wish for?" 

Unable to speak, pinioned by his gaze, she was unconscious of her welling tears. Her world contracted, filled only by the smell of him and the warmth of his body, her voice reduced to a defiant whisper. "I wish…I could stay here forever." She closed her eyes, allowing a tear or two to escape. "With you." The arms which enfolded her were fierce but the lips on her face and mouth were gentle. She abandoned herself to the embrace, the defences of discipline and self control swept aside by the surge of emotion. His breath was soft in her hair, his rough fingers light on her face, and his voice very quiet. 

"Then stay with me. Be my wife and you will never have to leave." For a fleeting, shining moment she imagined it but then duty reasserted itself and she sighed. 

"If I marry without the King's permission he will disinherit me. I will lose everything." 

"I don't care. I don't care if you come with nothing." His reply was immediate, his voice firm. 

"Yes, but I do!" She pushed herself free, shoulders slumped in dejection. "I promised my father, on his deathbed, that I would never let the King take our lands away. He fought tooth and nail to win the rights of those estates from King Henry, supporting him here and in France. All my life has been leading up to the day they will be mine, and I can never give them up…not even for you."

Cursing to himself, Gisbune turned away, his eyes glaring, unseeing out over the forest. Was he never to have anything? God's Blood! How many times did a man have to roll Fortune's dice before he won? It was true. He could never afford the sum required to pay King John for Gisla's hand. He ground his teeth in frustration. There must be another way. He couldn't just let her go. What if he won the King's favour somehow? Of course! It was staring him in the face. A dark smile crept over his features as he turned back to her. "There is a way for you to be mine and still keep your inheritance." She lifted her eyes, bright with hope. 

"The wolfshead." 

"Robin Hood?" 

"Yes!" Sir Guy's voice was charged with action. "Not only is he a notorious outlaw and thief, he has also personally humiliated the King." Not to mention me, he thought grimly. "If I can bring that wolfshead to bay, I'll be able to name my own reward." 

Gisla's eyes shone, and a smile of true happiness spread hesitatingly over her face."

"All we have to do is ensure that the King doesn't marry you to someone else in the mean time." 

"I can do something about that," she answered animatedly. "My father deposited some money secretly for me, for use in case the King chose someone I really disliked. It's not enough to gain a marriage approval, but sufficient to dissuade him, at least, for a time." 

Enfolding her against him once more, Guy felt himself filled not only with love, joy and hope for the future, but also a new sense of purpose. 

The next morning the sun shone clear and bright, glinting on the harness and mail of the waiting escort as the horses snuffled and shifted in the cold air. 

"My lord." The guard commander bowed to Sir Guy. "My lady." His dark face crinkled in a welcoming smile. "I am pleased to see you recovered." 

"Thank you, Gilbert." She smiled in return. "I had the best of care." 

"Should be on our way, then," he returned gruffly. "It's not far but the days are still short." 

Once mounted, Gisla stretched her hand to Gisburne, who bowed over it in a formal leave-taking, their words of parting had been said earlier, to be cherished and treasured till the future would reunite them again. Under her cloak she brushed her hand over the silver pin he had given her, shamefaced that it had not been gold or jewelled. Touched to her heart, she had pinned it to her gown, promising to wear it always as a sign of their love, knowing she would value it far above any richer piece. 

"Move off!" Gilbert's voice was strong, recalling her to the present. 

"Goodbye, my lady." Sir Guy's face was a mask of polite felicitation but his eyes were bottomless. 

"Goodbye," she whispered, as the horses started forward.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 

  
  


The Earl of Huntingdon pushed aside the documents he was working on and shivered as he pulled his fur-lined mantle closer about him. Despite forsaking the draughty great hall for the relative warmth of his chamber, he still seemed unable to chase the cold from his bones. 

Must be getting old, he thought wryly to himself, and sighed. This was not how he had imagined his latter years. Here was no wife to comfort him, no strong son shouldering the burdens of the estate, no laughing grandchildren to amuse with stories. He should have married again when Robert's mother had died but he hadn't the heart for it, consoling himself with the lad's fine promise for manhood. But it had all gone wrong somehow. Oh, Robert was a good lad, strong, brave, and stalwart in defending right. The differences arose over which right was to be defended as, rather than taking on the charge of the Earldom, responsibility for his inheritance and service to the Crown, Robert had chosen to lead a ragtag band of outlaws, self-styled defenders of right and justice. 

At first his father had attributed it to nothing more than youthful idealism, not to mention the glamour of Sir Richard's daughter, Marion, and hadn't expected it to outlast the first frosts. But events of the last months, together with Marion's entry into Halstead Priory, had led him to realise that it was something much deeper. He had come to accept, if not to understand, his son's calling, and even to respect him for it. 

A firm knock at the door recalled him to the present, followed by the entry of his steward. 

"My lord, a…ah…traveller is here to see you, a pilgrim." 

The Earl looked up, his grey eyes expectant, this being the cover used by his son Robert to enable him to visit discreetly. 

"Show him in, Tancred, and bring food, and see we are not disturbed." 

"Yes, my lord." He withdrew, a cloaked and hooded figure slipping through as he closed the door. 

"Robert!" The Earl stood, throwing off his mantle and striding over to clasp his son's hand. "You're welcome." 

"Thank you, Father." Robert gripped his father's hand for a moment, looking deep into the keen eyes. 

"Sit down, sit down. The food will be here shortly. I suppose you're hungry as always." He smiled fondly. 

"Aye, Father, though not as hungry as some now that the King has stripped the land for his wars." 

The Earl looked uncomfortable. "I know, Robert, but he is the King, and as such I am bound to obey him." 

"Despite the lack of justice in the realm?" 

"He is God's anointed. It is not for me to question it. We're each of us born to our place." 

"Do you never wish for change, Father? For freedom and rights for all?" 

The Earl scowled. "You're dreaming if you think ever to see it." 

They were spared further discussion by the entrance of Tancred with food and wine, and were soon ensconced by the fire, platters and goblets full. 

"Thank you, Tancred," said Huntingdon. "That'll be all for now." 

"Aye, my lord." 

Alone again, they ate in silence for a while, Robert ravenous after his cold journey. 

The Earl was first to speak, leaning back in his chair and cradling his wine cup. "So, Robert, what brings you back so soon? Looking for my help for some mercy mission no doubt?" 

Recalled to himself, Robert found his appetite had disappeared, replaced by a dull knot. Pushing his plate away, he sipped at his wine to try and moisten his dry mouth but found it little help. A bitter smile twisted his lips, "Aye, Father, it could be seen as that, although not everyone might think so." Pushing his chair back abruptly, he rose and strode to the centre of the room where he turned to face his father. "This is going to sound like a very strange request, Father, but I must ask you for 1000 silver marks." 

"A thousand marks!?" The Earl's face was incredulous. "That's a fortune, boy! I'll be damned if I'll waste such a sum on your poxy villagers!" 

"I promise it's not for the villagers, Father, and it is very important." 

"Well what the devil is it for? Come on, spit it out, lad!" 

"Is it not enough that I have said it is needed? Will you not trust me, Father?" 

The Earl pursed his lips in consideration for a time, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Robert, but I can't let you have such a sum without your telling me its purpose. If I deem the cause worthy, you have my word I'll provide the money." 

"Very well, Father." He took a deep breath. "It is to pay Sir Guy of Gisburne's ransom." 

Caught with his goblet at his lips Huntingdon spluttered, coughing on his wine as he roared with disbelieving laughter. "It's for what?!" 

"To pay…" 

"Yes, yes! I heard what you said. I just don't think I can believe it! I don't know which is more preposterous, that you should care about saving that man's neck, or that you should think to use my money to do it?! You surely cannot be serious? Give me one good reason why I should do it?" 

Robert went over and seated himself once again opposite his father, his clear blue gaze meeting his father's grey eyes. 

"Margaret of Gisburne." 

The Earl's face stilled. "What do you know of Margaret of Gisburne?" 

"I was with her when she died, Father. She told me what you had been to each other." 

The breath caught in Huntingdon's throat as he remembered, but he kept his face frozen. "That was a long time ago, Robert, a life which might have been but was not."

"You would not save the son for the sake of his mother? For the love you once shared?" 

"It is the past!" The Earl's fist crashed onto the table. "She is dead! And that son you would have me save brought her nothing but misery. There's none of her kindness and love in him. He's too much like his father." 

"Edmund of Gisburne was not his father." 

To Huntingdon time seemed compressed to a single heartbeat as he felt the icy spear of premonition pierce his heart. Ah, God, no! No, it could not be. 

Robert's voice was very quiet. "I'm sorry, Father." 

"No." The Earl shook his head slowly. "You must be mistaken, Robert. Why would she tell you such a thing?" 

"I don't know, Father. She knew I was his enemy. Maybe she wished me to spare him, or maybe she wished to prevent me from committing the sin of killing…my…my...." His voice tailed off. 

The Earl put his head in his hands. "Oh, Margaret, Margaret, why didn't you tell me?" 

His son's hand was comforting on his shoulder. "She told no one. She said it would only cause harm." 

"Harm?" Huntingdon raised his head, his eyes glittering. "And what of the harm to her? Such a secret to keep for all these years, such a dread lest Edmund discover it." 

The hand on his shoulder gripped him harder, as his son whispered his worst fear. "Edmund knew the child was not his, Father, but she never revealed your name to him." 

The colour fled from the Earl's face, and he closed his eyes. "What else?" 

"Edmund told Guy when he was a child, revenging himself on Margaret by destroying her son's love for her, and in the hope he could learn the father's name through the boy, but she wouldn't tell him either." 

Huntingdon opened his eyes, his face strained as he fought to make sense of the emotions engulfing him. Love and regret for the thought of gentle Margaret, suffering in that house of torment, anger and disgust at Edmund, guilt at his lack of action. He could have done something. He should have ignored her wish to be left alone, stood up to his father. 

Robert's soft voice broke his thoughts. "Now you see why I had to come? How could I not ask you to save him, knowing that he was your son?" 

The Earl's face hardened. "There's more to being a son than sharing blood. Of course I regret the past. Don't you think I would have taken the child with open arms? Raised him in love and honour? But Guy of Gisburne is Edmund's work, a man of cruelty and cold ambition. How can I invite a man like that into my home, into my heart? He is as he is. Knowing who fathered him can't change that." 

"What will you do, Father?" 

The Earl's face looked suddenly very old in the firelight. "I don't know, Robert. I just don't know." 

  
  


*    *    *    *

Sir Guy didn't even bother to look up on hearing the cell door open, and the guard had to speak twice before he heard him. 

"My lord? You're to come down to the hall, right away if you please." 

Gisburne frowned. "The hall?" 

"Aye, my lord, your ransom has been paid, and you're free to go." 

The blue eyes widened. "Paid? Paid by whom?" 

"I don't rightly know, my lord. I was just told to bring you down." 

Snatching up his cloak from the cot, Sir Guy pushed past the guard, out the door and strode along towards the stairs, a look of triumph on his face. De Rainault must have squeezed some more money from his serfs, or maybe his brother. Not that Gisburne didn't expect to be earning every penny, but that didn't matter now, not when he was being handed the dice cup again after thinking himself out the game. 

The hall was crowded as usual, with William Brewer holding court at the high table. 

"Well, well, Sir Guy of Gisburne. It looks as though you have some value after all, at least to someone." He leaned forward menacingly. "Although personally I'd have liked nothing better than to see your head decorating the city walls, the King does need all he can get for his wars. Still, I'm sure it won't be long before your singular talents bring you to my notice again." He laughed mockingly, quickly joined by those nearby. 

Seething, Sir Guy was about to retort when a rough hand was placed on his arm. "Come away, my lord. The quicker we're gone from here the better." 

Swallowing his anger, Gisburne turned and followed the man out of the hall. In the courtyard another man waited with horses, and on approaching Sir Guy recognised him as Gisla's retainer. 

"Gilbert!" 

"Aye, my lord." 

"But…." 

"No time for explanations now, my lord. Let us mount up and be gone from this den of thieves." 

Time seemed to pass immeasurably slowly for Gisla as she waited with the other soldier outside the town, tormented from one side by irrational fears and the other by an unsteady anticipation. During the many months since she saw him last, the memories of their time together had become worn and ragged through many an unfolding. The report of his arrest and her winter journey had strung her nerves taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest sound, and the dark, snow-laden sky seemed full of threat. She was touching the silver pin for the hundredth time when they heard the horses at last, and the three men entered the clearing at a crisp trot. He seemed thinner and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, but he was here, safe, God be praised. 

She dismounted to meet him as he leapt from his horse, holding out her hands to greet him and draw him out of sight and earshot of the others. For a long moment she could not speak, only weep with silent relief as he held her, drawing strength from his awkward reassurance to face the journey ahead. When she could look up again, it was to meet his eyes, darker from their ordeal, having looked out from the house of madness and stood by the open door of death. 

"Was it very terrible, Guy?" She shuddered at the thought of how close she had come to never seeing him again. 

"I've been in worse places," He smiled down at her, thinking of the bloody siege at Argentan. "The hardest thing to bear was thinking I had lost you." 

She closed her eyes briefly to master her tears then kissed him gently. "I am here, my love." 

His voice was low. "You should not have come. It was dangerous." But he tightened his hold on her and added softly, "But I'm not sorry you did." 

"Nor I, Guy." She smiled from her heart. "Nor I." 

"So what is your plan? Will you come with me to Nottingham?" 

She shook her head sadly. "I cannot. I must return before I am missed." She grinned. "I'm supposedly spending a few days in retreat at St. Morvens Priory." 

Gisburne looked sceptical. "You? On spiritual retreat?" 

She donned a mock serious look. "I've discovered great comfort in the Church." His disbelieving smirk made her burst out laughing, delighting in the moment of happiness. "Now, seriously, I need to return to pass the night at Halstead so that I can be back by tomorrow evening. Will you accompany us?" 

He nodded assent, and drew her close again before they returned to the clearing and the waiting escort.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 

  
  


Despite being cold and stiff from the long ride, Gisla's heart sank as they came in sight of Halstead Priory. The thought of what she had to do, had to say, drove away any comfort to be anticipated in a hot meal or warm bed. Throughout the journey Guy had been animated, talking of the future, of his plans on his return to Nottingham. Her joy at seeing him and being with him was sharpened by her dread of what was to come. 

"Here we are - Halstead." Guy turned to her, innocent enthusiasm bright on his face. "I'll ride ahead and warn them." 

She nodded silently, and managed to fold her cold lips into a smile, watching with a mixture of love and agony as he spurred his horse up the slope towards the waiting grey walls. 

  
  


 *    *    *    * 

  
  


"It worked, Robin!" Much capered up the forest path in front of the rest of the band, laughing delightedly. "Now all the villagers will have enough for the winter, won't they?" He stopped for a moment, his face serious. 

"Yes, Much." Robin smiled indulgently. "No one will be going hungry this year. Your plan…" he said, arching a conspiratorial eyebrow at the others, "worked brilliantly." 

"Yeah," added Scarlet, "I don't think we've ever 'ad a better plan. What do you say, John?" 

"Oh, you're definitely right there, Will. It was a prince among plans." 

"Really?" Much was grinning so hard his face was nearly as red as his hair. 

"No question about it," Tuck enjoined solemnly. "As far as plans go it was inspired." 

With a spurt of energy, Much charged off down the path to Wickham, oblivious to the muffled laughter and hearty back-slapping erupting behind him. 

"Welcome, Robin." Edward of Wickham was always formal in his greetings. "Will you join us in our meal? After all, it's thanks to you that we've food to offer at all." 

"No, Edward, we'd best be back in camp before dark. Too many wolves about." 

"Aye, Robin, and that includes one we thought we were rid of." 

The outlaws exchanged quick, sharp glances before looking at Edward expectantly. 

"The Sheriff." The village headman's mouth twisted. "He's back in Nottingham already and it won't be long before we have to start paying the cost of his ransom." 

Scarlet kicked angrily at the nearest fence post. "I told you we should have stolen that money!" 

"Don't worry, Will." Robin's voice was bright. "There'll be plenty more money to steal." He turned to Edward. "You know you have no cause to worry. We'll always be here to help you." 

"Aye, Robin." Edward smiled. "May Herne protect you for it." 

Later that evening, Robin was on watch while the others snored happily about the campfire, bellies full and minds at ease. Leaning back against a mossy trunk and watching the stars through lattice of bare branches, he wasn't surprised when Tuck's ponderous shadow appeared at his side and settled itself down accompanied by creaks and grunts. 

"Aaaahh," the friar sighed, as he manoeuvred for a comfortable spot. "That's better." 

Robin smiled fondly at him. "It's a good night, Tuck." 

"Aye, Robin, and it was a good day." 

"It was, Tuck, it was." He nodded agreement. 

They sat in silence for a while, periodically lulled by the rhythmic snores of their fellows and alerted by the night calls of animals - both hunting and hunted. 

"I went to see my father, Tuck." Robin's voice was quiet but clear in the night air. 

The friar looked up but was silent. 

"I told him the truth, what Lady Margaret had told me…" He paused, scuffling a heel absent-mindedly in the leaves. 

"And…?" Tuck prompted gently. 

"I don't know, Tuck. He wasn't exactly pleased at the news. He refused to give me the money and I have absolutely no idea what he plans to do." 

Tuck laid a hand on Robin's arm, surprisingly gentle for its great size. "You've done the right thing, Robin. He had a right to know. It lies with him now. You can do no more." 

"I know, Tuck," Robin sighed. "You're right. I've done all I can." 

"You get some sleep, lad. I'll take the watch." 

"You know, I think I'll do that." Robin picked up his cloak and moved towards the fire. "Good night, Tuck." 

"Good night, Robin. Sleep well." 

  
  


 *    *    *    * 

It being a non-meat day, the food served to the travellers at Halstead priory was less hearty than they might have preferred, although no less plentiful. Having insisted on being served in a private room, Gisburne and Gilbert had made short work of the roast lamprey and eels in red wine sauce. Gisla, on the other hand, had been able to face little more than a few bites of bread and a little wine, and now pushed away her plate of congealing fish with distaste. Her male companions, replete and half way through a second flagon of wine, took little notice as they pursued their conversation on horses and armour. She smiled a little, sadly, and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. Let him enjoy his ignorance. She could bear the burden alone a while longer. 

The flames soothed her and sent her mind wandering, remembering the past. Loss was not a new sensation to her, neither was responsibility. Since her mother had died giving birth to a still-born son when she was barely seven years old and her father had vowed not to marry again, she had known and accepted them both, inextricably entwined with each other as the dominant force in her life. The death of her father, terrible and painful as it was, had further tempered this hardness within her. And now it would be tested, to see if she had the strength to carry through with the choice which had had to be made. But it would be hard, the hardest thing yet, for it was not her alone that must bear it. 

She was roused from her musing by Gilbert rising to take his leave and check the horses. 

"Good night, my lady." He nodded from the doorway. "We'll be leaving at first light tomorrow." 

She nodded silently as he went out, the knowledge that the time was upon her drying her mouth and freezing her heart. 

The room seemed suddenly stifling, the walls close and the air hot. She stood, snatched up her cloak and turned to Sir Guy. "Do you not think it warm? I should like to take a walk in the gardens." 

He looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses, his face crumpled with incomprehension. "But…but…it is pitch dark, and freezing, with six inches of snow underfoot." 

"All the more reason for me not to go alone, then!" she snapped, dragging on her cloak and marching out of the room. 

Gisburne stood for a few bewildered moments then, shaking his head, picked up his own cloak and hurried to follow her through the corridor and out into the icy courtyard. 

"Couldn't we just walk here in the cloisters? At least it's dry underfoot." 

She walked back to him, her face hidden in the shadow of her cloak, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Please, I must speak with you, and it would be better if we are not overheard." 

Reluctantly, Guy followed her through the doorway into the nuns' garden, past the beds of carefully tended medicinal plants, to the shelter of a dark yew tree. 

God's legs, he scowled to himself as he stamped up to her through the snow. What the devil was wrong with the woman? 

His irritation fled on reaching her, however, as her face was chalk white in the shadow, eyes bright with pain. "What is it? What has happened?" he said, his voice gruff, unaccustomed to this concern. "Are you ill?" 

She shook her head mutely, lowering her face in an attitude of despair. 

"Has someone harmed you?" Unbidden, anger flowed through him at the thought, and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "Tell me who it is!" 

She raised her head, a sad smile fleeting on her lips. "Ah, Guy, it is no one but myself. I walked the path with my eyes open and, save the pain I must cause you, I would never change a step of the way." 

Guy felt his face crease into a frown as the familiar fingers of suspicion laid a cloak across his shoulders. He dropped his hands and took a step back. 

"What do you mean?" His eyes were wary. 

She appeared to gather herself, a fragile strength pulling her upright, and she took a deep breath. "The money I used to pay your ransom, it was that my father had left me to pay off the King." 

"Go on." His voice was guarded. 

"It means I can no longer avoid a marriage that he chooses for me." 

"And has he chosen one?" Guy felt his voice harden, even as within him something cried out in pain. 

"Yes." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "I'm sorry, Guy, there is nothing I can do." 

"Who is it?" 

"That isn't important." 

"It is to me!" he snarled. 

"It's Aubrey FitzAllen." 

"Yes, I might have guessed!" His voice was scathing and, although a part of him recognised that he was being irrational, he was unable to stem the course of anger. "A rich baron." 

"Please, Guy." He could her the desperation breaking in her voice. "It's not as bad as it might have been." 

"Not as bad?" He stabbed the air with a short laugh. "How? Pray tell me how it is not as bad?" 

"FitzAllen is not a young man, and his health is not good. When he dies I will be free, and have my inheritance besides." Her voice was pitiful with earnestness but his pity was in a deep, locked place to which he had never found the key. 

"So, I am to wait for some other man's leavings?" His voice was savage. "Try to go back to my old life and forget I ever met you?" The pain on her face seared into his heart, and yet he could not stop himself. "Better you had left me in that prison to die." 

"No, Guy!" Her anguish tore at his guard. "At least this way we have some hope."

"Hope?" he sneered. "I long ago learned to live without any." 

Finally her tears spilled over, and although a voice within him cried out in response, yet also within his agony was a sick satisfaction that it should be so. She reached her hands out for him, but he pushed her away as he pushed away the wish to hold her. Then, unable to endure this any longer, he turned and stormed out of the garden. 

Unable to speak, to think, or even to feel beyond this desolation, Gisla sank to the ground, and, unheeding of the darkness and the cold, she gave herself up to her grief. Leaving the safety of strength, she plunged into the storm, abandoning herself to the pain. Unaware of the snow-covered grass beneath her or darkness about her, she rode the waves of loss so long held at bay. 

"My lady?" A soft touch upon her shoulder roused her, and she looked up to see the gentle face of a young novice, a few auburn curls escaping from her wimple "Are you hurt?" Her voice was solicitous with undertones of anger. 

Gisla sat up, hastily gathering herself again, wiping her face on her sleeve. "No, thank you. It is nothing." 

"Are you sure?" The nun helped Gisla to her feet. "You can tell me. I know Guy of Gisburne and his ways." Her voice was bitter. "And I know people who can protect you from him." 

Gisla smiled a smile as cold as iron, and brushed the snow from her clothes. "It is rather he that should be protected from me, for I have sacrificed his happiness for his life." She drew her cloak about her and walked slowly back towards the courtyard, leaving Marion of Leaford standing alone in the garden, a frown of puzzlement clouding her green eyes. 

Gisla had never felt so weary as she pushed open the heavy door to her chamber. The candles had burned down, and only the dim, ruddy light of the fire lit the room. She barred the door slowly and hung up her wet cloak on the peg. Feeling the lack of food and shivering with cold, she spied a flagon of wine on the table. As she reached out for a cup, she felt a soft touch on the back of her hand and looked up to see a familiar shape silhouetted in the firelight. 

"You're cold." His voice was soft. "Come, sit here at the fire and get warm." 

Numbly, she let him lead her to a chair at the fireside, where she stretched out her cold hands gratefully to the heat. 

"Here, drink this." He handed her a cup of wine and she sipped in silence, hugging the goblet with both hands while he sat opposite and watched her intently. 

Within a few minutes, the wine and fire had started to take effect, and Gisla began to recover herself. She lowered the cup but did not raise her head. 

"I thought you had gone," she whispered, lifting her eyes just enough to see his face. 

"Was that what you'd hoped?" he spoke quietly, the earlier anger burned out. "Tell me truly." 

"No. Oh, no." She raised her head to look straight at him. "Save that I am bound by duty to honour my father's wishes, I would leave everything to be with you. I am sorry, Guy." Sorrow thickened her voice. "I wish I could have spared you this." 

He rose and crossed to her, taking her cup. He placed it aside then knelt down and took her hands in his. "No, it is I who should be sorry. I should not have said what I did. I just couldn't bear the thought of losing you." He tightened his grip on her hands. 

"Oh, Guy. I could think of no other way. How could I let you die? At least this way there may be a chance for us." 

He nodded silently and smiled grimly. 

From the direction of the chapel, the sound of a bell echoed into the quiet room.

"Matins," whispered Gisla. 

"Yes," Guy replied standing and gently raising her to her feet. "Now you must to bed. Tomorrow you have a long ride and an early start." He drew her to him, clasping her head to his chest and burying his face in her hair. For a long minute he held her, then, with a great effort of will, stepped back. 

"Sleep well." He raised her hands to his lips briefly then made to move towards the door. 

"No." She grasped at his hands desperately. "Don't go. Please. Stay with me. Let us have this one time together." Her eyes were shining. "Let me have one night of love before a lifetime of duty." 

His eyes were bottomless as she gazed into them for a fleeting moment, then he pulled her close to him again. "Are you sure this is what you want?" 

"Yes," she whispered. "More than anything."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 

  
  


The bell for morning prayers woke Marion from a troubled sleep. She could remember nothing specific, but a dark sense of uneasiness, of some wrongness, filled her, and even the normally comforting morning service did little to shake it off. After breaking her fast, she wrapped herself in a warm cloak and slipped out to the garden for a walk. The day was bright, with the snow starting to fade from the paths, making dark ribbons through the white. The orchard was filled with the noise of squabbling birds, and through the gateway to the courtyard came the brisk sounds of a party making ready to depart: horses stamping and snorting, harnesses jingling and the cheery shouts of men. Lost in thought, Marion found herself instinctively avoiding the open ground and walking in the shelter of the wall. She smiled softly to herself when she noticed – old habits die hard. Pacing slowly, her feet silent in the soft snow, she let her thoughts drift, her troubled mind soothed by the unhurried presence of nature about her. 

As she passed into the cover of the old yew tree, she was roused from her reverie by the sound of voices. Recognising that of Sir Guy of Gisburne, she instinctively pulled her hood close about her face. He was talking animatedly to the young woman she had seen the night before, the one who had so rudely rejected her offer of help. Well, whatever plot it was that Gisburne was planning for her, Marion wasn't going to get involved again. She knew when she was not wanted. Still, she did find herself a little curious, and crept closer to observe without being seen. 

Gisburne was trying to keep his voice low to prevent those in the courtyard from overhearing, but it was still charged with emotion. 

"I can't do it!" he growled, striding up and down. "I can't just let you go like this." 

Gisla's voice was frayed but still strong. "You must. For both our sakes, and for us to have any chance at a future together." 

"No!" He pounded a fist into his palm. "No." He was almost pleading now. 

"Please, Guy." She touched a hand to her temple. "This is already so hard." 

He stopped in front of her and looked mournfully at the ground, beaten. "How will you bear it?" 

"Because I must." She sighed. "Before I met you I had longed for this time. It meant freedom for me, but now…" 

"A lifetime of duty," he supplied sullenly. "It's not fair. We've had so little time." 

She smiled softly. "I know, my love, but short though it was, our time together was strong enough to sustain me. And it won't be forever." 

"You won't forget me?" 

"No!" she cried. "How could I? You showed me that I could love, I, who never believed in it. How hollow my life would have been had I not met you. You are safe now, and I can face anything because of that." 

Once more he embraced her fiercely, knowing it would be the last time, drinking in the scent of her hair, the touch of her skin and warm presence of her in his arms. Trying to get enough of her to sustain him into his cold future. But all too soon the quiet voice of Gilbert was telling them it was time to leave, and then she was mounting to ride away - maybe forever - and it seemed to him that she was taking everything good with her. She looked back only one time, just before they entered the trees and, although she was too far for him to make out her face, he could see her reach up to touch the silver pin and, for a brief moment, it was as if he could feel her touch him too. 

  
  


 *    *    *    * 

The scene from the window of Huntingdon castle was bleak. This was the weather the Earl hated most - wet and cold. Every tree was dripping, the sky gray and low, and everywhere that accursed damp air that seemed to seep into his very bones and seize them up. There was no doubt about it: he was getting old. Certainly too old to deal with the kind of problem Robert had dropped in his lap. 

He shook his head wearily. He still wasn't sure whether he had done the right thing, still couldn't find any real peace within himself. And, yet, he just could not do it, could not allow this man who was his son, unknown, unacknowledged and even now, unwanted, but still his son, his and Margaret's, to be put to death. Oh, Margaret, how could a love as sweet and good as ours have produced such a warped image? And yet he knew it was only later that the boy was warped: that had been Edmund's contribution. 

But how could he acknowledge him, this man of greed and callous violence and the sworn enemy of his son, Robert? Welcome him into his home? But acknowledge him he must. Guy had the right to know who his father was, and if God had seen fit to send him this, then he must accept it and do what he knew to be right, however hard it might be. 

Outside the window, the light was beginning to fade and he knew that it wouldn't be long now. Tancred would be returning from Newark, having been dispatched the day before with the money for the fine, and he would bring with him the man he would now have to learn to call his son, whatever the future might bring. 

The knock at the door, however expected, was still sudden and he felt the dread rising in him, bringing a dark taste into his mouth and a knot to his belly. Still, he managed to draw himself upright and stand straight as the door opened and Tancred entered – alone – closing the door behind him and placing his heavy bag on the table. 

"Well, man," the Earl barked, "where is he?" 

"He wasn't there, my lord." 

"Wasn't there? What do you mean?" 

"The money was already paid. He was freed last week." 

"Paid? By whom?" 

"I don't know, my lord. No one seemed to be sure. He is back in Nottingham, however, so it could have been de Rainault." 

"What, that grasper pay a thousand marks for his steward?" For my son, he thought angrily, finding he did not like the idea at all. What price would that ransom cost Sir Guy? How many more years of service in that godless household, the Sheriff putting the finishing touches to what Edmond had started all those years ago? No. It must end here. The hour was late, but maybe not too late. Perhaps his son might yet be saved. 

Looking up he saw that Tancred was waiting quietly, those patient eyes seeming to read his very mind, and he smiled suddenly. "Well, Tancred, it looks like a trip to Nottingham is called for." 

"Yes, my lord." 

"Hmm…" Huntingdon ran a hand through his thick hair absentmindedly. "Probably better to wait till that fox de Rainault is out of the way. See what you can find out, will you?" 

* * * * *

"Gisburne!" The Sheriff charged into the hall. A grin of utter delight was on his face and he was animatedly waving a letter. He climbed the dais in a single bound and spread the missive excitedly on the table, leaning forward eagerly. "Wait till you hear this. It's priceless." 

Guy looked up half-heartedly from his wine cup. 

"You remember the grain that was collected for the King?" 

"You mean the grain Robin Hood stole, which landed us both in gaol with a death sentence?" retorted Gisburne bitterly. "How could I forget?" 

"No, no. I mean the rest of it, man." 

"The stuff Brewer is guarding at Newark?" 

"Was guarding, Gisburne. Was guarding!" The Sheriff looked like he was about to explode with laugher. "Robin Hood, he stole it! And now…and now…" At this point de Rainault was unable to remain standing and collapsed in his chair, laughing uproariously. 

"Now what?" 

The Sheriff could hardly speak through his mirth. "And now Brewer is the one in gaol with a death sentence…and the King is sending me…me...to oversee his imprisonment!" He continued to laugh. "I never thought anything good could come of that Wolfshead, but right now I could kiss him!" 

For a minute Gisburne looked disgustedly at his master, then went back to drinking his wine disinterestedly. 

"Right, Gisburne, have you got that?" The Sheriff was busy at his desk, almost hidden behind the stacks of documents. 

"Yes, my lord," his steward replied in a lacklustre voice. 

"Are you sure?" De Rainault's voice was insistent. "You're clear on everything we've gone over?" 

"Yes," Gisburne sighed, looking absently out the window. 

"Well, you'd better be." A smirk played across de Rainault's sharp face. "I don't want to come back and find you in the dungeon, or us up to our eyes in distressed Jewish maidens." 

No response from the tall silhouette. 

"God's teeth, man! What the devil's the matter with you these days? Are you sick or something. I mean, just a couple of weeks ago you were awaiting death in the custody of that vile stoat, Brewer, and now here you are about to be acting sheriff for as long as the King's whim lasts!" 

Sir Guy turned back from the window, his face sour, the usual spark of anger missing from his eyes. "Is that everything, my lord?" 

"Yes, yes," snapped the Sheriff irritably, waving the young knight out the door. God's blood, what was wrong with the man? He'd been like this ever since getting back from Newark. At first de Rainault had put it down to sulking because he hadn't paid the ransom, but surely any man who had had such a narrow escape would be glad to be alive. Anger he would have expected. In fact, that was what made the man so useful, but this, this depression, this moping around, it wasn't right. Even the prospect of being left in charge in the Sheriff's absence, a task Gisburne usually took to with relish, too much relish sometimes, was doing nothing to lift the man's spirits. Ah well, a good fight with the outlaws would soon sort him out. 

The morning light crept slowly over Sherwood Forest and the sleeping town of Nottingham, waking peasants and artisans alike to another day of toil. High on the castle battlements Gisburne looked out, unmoved by the daily miracle unfolding before his eyes, an empty wine cup cradled in one hand. The coming of the dawn held no joy for him, for this was the day Gisla would be wed to another man and lost to him – maybe forever. He had known it would come, but had watched all night, hoping that maybe some twist of fortune might turn it away at the last minute. He lifted his goblet to his lips but it was empty. Well, that was one thing he could take care of, he thought grimly, and headed for the stairs. 

Come mid-morning, he had consumed several more cups of wine but it had made little difference. He was no closer to sleep, no closer to forgetting. All the world seemed gray and flat. Only in his thoughts of her was there any colour, any texture, but even there the brightness was overshadowed by the darkness of loss. If only he could forget, just for today. 

"My lord?" The servant's voice was diffident. Despite Sir Guy's recent quietness, no one in the household wanted to risk waking his temper. 

"Oh, not now." He waved the man away with a heavy arm. 

The servant looked hesitantly around him, but no help was forthcoming. "Please, my lord. A guest has arrived. You must greet them." 

"A guest? What guest?" Guy's voice sharpened with annoyance. " I'm not expecting anyone." 

"It's the Earl of Huntingdon, my lord." 

"Oh, all right, all right. Show him in." 

He'd barely had time to drag on a clean tunic and order a fresh cloth laid on the dais, and was just rubbing his unshaven chin regretfully when the Earl entered, walking stiffly towards him. He's aged, thought Gisburne. Well, it was only to be expected with an outlaw for a son and a tyrant for a king. 

"Welcome, my lord." He bowed slightly and gestured to the dais. "Please be seated. I'm afraid the Sheriff isn't here." 

"I know," answered the Earl as they settled themselves at the board. "It's you I've come to see." 

"Me?" Guy was puzzled but intrigued despite himself. 

A servant appeared with wine and inquisitive ears. Gisburne took the jug and goblets and motioned the man away. "Go on, you lot! Out of here!" he barked. And the servants fled, leaving only the men-at-arms at the far end of the hall – well out of earshot. 

"Wine, my lord?" 

"What? Yes, I suppose so." The Earl was studying him closely, scrutinising him, in fact, and it made him feel really rather uncomfortable. 

"You were in prison?" 

"Yes, my lord, at Newark." 

"You look different, older." 

That wasn't the gaol, thought Guy bitterly, that was losing the woman I love. 

"I sent my man to Newark for you, but you had already been freed." 

The Earl's words took a few moments to strike home. What on earth was the man talking about? "You sent your man to Newark for me?" Guy's voice was querulous, his face twisted with a frown. "What on earth do you mean?" 

"I meant to pay the ransom for you." 

"You meant to what?" Gisburne's face was even more confused as he tried to sort through the implications of this. What was the man saying? That he would have paid the ransom money for him? Then Gisla… 

"I had to…Guy. You see…" The Earl's voice sounded half-strangled, but Gisburne cut across him. 

"You mean you would have paid my ransom? To the King? The one thousand marks?" His voice was strong now, and urgent. 

"Yes…I…" 

"But why?" Gisburne's face was puzzled yet a light had come back into it. "No! Never mind!" He leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair, his voice animated. "That's not important now. Would you pay it still?" 

"Yes, of course…I…" 

"Then follow me. There might just be time!" he shouted, leaving the hall at a run, calling for his horse.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"You know, Tuck, on a day like this I can actually believe that spring will eventually come to Sherwood." 

Tuck smiled. "Aye, it's been a long winter right enough, Robin, but there can't be much of it left now." 

They were seated at the mouth of a cave bathed in a pool of soft winter sunshine, the air latent with the unseen promise of spring. Tuck was sewing and Robin fletching arrows. From the clearing below came the sound of clashing steel and occasional roars – Scarlet and Nasir at sword practice. 

Robin sighed, "Spring in Sherwood: it was always Marion's favourite time of year. It just won't be the same without her." 

"Aye, Robin." Tuck nodded sadly. "The most beautiful flower of them all will be missing." 

Robin pushed the arrows aside morosely and stood to stretch his legs, breathing deeply the fine air. "I think I'll join Scarlet and Nasir for a while." He grinned half-heartedly. "After all they say that war is a sure cure for love." 

He was halfway down the slope towards the others, when they were interrupted by shouts, and John and Much came crashing through the undergrowth into the clearing. 

"Robin! Robin!" The boy was gasping and could hardly speak. 

Robin placed a gentle hand on his heaving shoulder. "Easy now, Much. Get your breath back." He looked quickly at the older man. "John?" 

"We've just seen your father on the Newark road." His voice was grim. "Riding as if the devil himself was after him. Or, perhaps, that should be that he was after the devil." 

Robin frowned in confusion. 

"Gisburne!" blurted out Much. "The Earl, he's chasing Gisburne." 

"Gisburne!" Robin's exclamation of shock was matched by Scarlet's eager shout, and even Nasir hefted his weapons in anticipation. 

Robin flashed a worried look at Tuck before turning to John. "What horses have we?" 

"Only one, tethered at the stream. The others are stabled at Wickam for the winter." 

Robin left the clearing at a dead run, making for the stream. Behind him, shouts of anger and confusion exploded. 

"Robin!" Scarlet was livid. 

"Wait, lad!" John was worried. 

The drumming of hooves, quickly fading, was their only answer. 

"God's blood!" Will cursed, and made as if to follow. 

Nasir laid a silent hand on his arm and motioned down the path to Wickham. "Horses." 

"He's right, Will." John was always practical. "We'll get the others from the village and catch them up." 

Reluctantly, Scarlet allowed himself to be steered away. Tuck, with a despairing glance heavenward, followed. 

  
  


 *    *    *    * 

The morning had seemed interminable to Gisla, the fine wedding clothes dragging at her shoulders, the heavy jewellery weighing her down, and the fussing of the waiting women irritating her almost beyond endurance, so that she had finally sent everyone away so she could sit in peace for a time. At least she should be grateful that FitzAllen seemed to have no female relations eager to welcome her to their twittering brood. 

Flinging wide the shutters, she looked out of the solar window into the gardens below. She breathed deeply of the mild air, the bright sunshine accentuating the dull shadow on her heart. Opening her hand slowly, she revealed the silver pin Guy had given her and, taking a deep breath, she brushed it lightly with her lips before fastening it to the front of her dress, incongruous among the heavy gems. 

"You are always with me," she whispered, "whatever may happen." Then she drew herself up, composed her face, smoothed her gown, turned, and walked towards the door. 

Gisburne was oblivious to the glory of the day around him. Only the rhythm of his horse's hooves mattered to him, as they matched the desperate drumming of his heart, beating out his fear that he might not be in time. Behind him the Earl of Huntingdon seemed to be keeping pace. At first he had tried shouting at Sir Guy, trying to get his attention, but had soon given up and was now just doggedly following, despite the punishing pace. Guy hadn't taken the time to give more than a passing thought to the Earl's sudden appearance, any more than he had thought about the route through Sherwood that they had followed. It was the shortest. That was all that mattered.

Flashing through another village, chickens and children alike scattering from their path, and thundering across a wooden bridge, Gisburne recognised the river Trent and knew there was less than another two miles to Southwell. His horse was suffering now, blowing and stumbling, and he encouraged it urgently as they pounded along the woodland path, avoiding the crowded market town. The beast responded valiantly, and soon they were rushing headlong from the dark trees into the bright sunlit meadow surrounding the Minster, and Sir Guy could mercifully rein his mount to a halt and slide to the ground. 

A bright noisy crowd was milling around outside the building, servants, knights, ladies and children, all cheery and chattering. Finely caparisoned horses were stamping and tossing in the sun, and richly canopied carriages waited expectantly. His eyes strafed the turbulent gathering and, in a sudden space, he saw her, dark hair glistening, unbound, outshining her heavy ornaments. Her eyes met his, bottomless and unreadable as her face blanched and mouth trembled, and although he was too far to hear her gasp, her stumble made him take an involuntary step forward. 

But it was another who caught at her arm, frowning solicitously and speaking unheard words of concern. Another who led her, silent and unprotesting, through the congratulatory crowds to one of the waiting carriages. And just as she reached it she turned without stopping, her eyes dark with anguish and lips heavy with pain, as she looked back at him. She raised a hand to touch the silver pin, before stepping up into the carriage and out of his view. Within minutes the conveyance had rumbled out of sight, taking the crowds with it, and leaving Gisburne motionless beside his exhausted horse. 

For a long moment he stood frozen, unable to act, speak or even think, as the dark wave of despair flowed outwards from his heart and engulfed him. Then it spilled out and, with an inarticulate howl, he turned and rammed his fist as hard as possible into the nearest tree trunk, then rested his temple against the blood-stained bark, clutching his head with his torn and bleeding hand, and fought for control of himself. 

"Guy." The voice was soft behind him. 

Gisburne turned slowly. The Earl, he'd forgotten about him. 

"Guy," Huntingdon began again awkwardly, "I'm …sorry." He gestured towards the road down which the party had left. "I had no idea." 

"Why should you?" Guy answered stiffly, collecting his horse and starting to rub it down with a handful of dry grass, trying to find some comfort in the familiar task. Then he stopped, frowning, as he remembered how the Earl of Huntingdon had come to be here in the first place. 

The Earl saw Gisburne turn to him with the unspoken question in his eyes, and steeled himself to provide the answer. 

"Guy," he began, "I came to Nottingham today to tell you something very important." He stopped, thinking that maybe this wasn't the best time, but it was too late to turn back now. Gisburne had left his horse and now stood in front of him with arms folded expectantly. 

"Well, what is it?" 

"It has to do with your mother." 

"My mother?!" The blue eyes flashed. "She's dead." 

"Yes, I know," the Earl spoke softly,. "but before she died, she told a great secret, a secret that she had kept, alone, for many years." 

Gisburne's breath hissed. 

"A secret that she kept from you." The Earl's eyes looked steadily into those of his son. "And from me." 

Guy's face was motionless, save for a tightening around the eyes and mouth. 

"It is I who am your father, Guy." 

A slight frown now creased Gisburne's forehead as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. "She…" His voice was hoarse. "She told you this." 

"No." The Earl faltered. "Not exactly." 

"Then how do you know?" 

"She told me." 

At the sound of his enemy's voice, Gisburne had whirled and drawn his sword before he had even comprehended the words. Robert of Huntingdon walked noiselessly out from the trees, arms spread wide, weaponless. 

The Earl cast an alarmed glance at Gisburne, but he was stock-still, trying desperately to make sense of what he was hearing. The Earl of Huntingdon, his father? Then that meant that Robert…No! It must be a trick, a cruel trick, just like those his step-father Edmund had liked to play. The wolfshead was smiling at him, smiling! 

"She told me at Croxton, when she died. Remember? We were both there." 

But why? Gisburne thought. What would be the point of such a ruse? And the Earl…? If it had been the wolfshead alone… 

Robert took a step closer, and Gisburne raised his sword. "Stay back!" he barked. 

"It's true, Guy." The Earl's voice was placatory but Gisburne kept his eyes on the outlaw. 

"Why? Why would she tell you?" His voice was harsh but the blade had dropped slightly. 

"I don't know, Guy. I've asked myself the same question many times. Maybe she just wanted there to be a chance for everything to be right between us?" 

"Right?" Gisburne almost laughed aloud, dropping his sword point to the ground and looking from the Earl to the outlaw. "What's right about this?" 

"Nothing, Guy," replied the Earl, "but we can change that. Come back with me to Huntingdon. That's why I came to Nottingham this morning." 

This morning? Guy thought. It was a lifetime ago, and now I have lost Gisla, and gained a…family? How strange that they could have been there all along and…

Wait a minute. His eyes narrowed and his lip curled suspiciously as he turned towards the Earl. "My mother died well over a year ago. Why didn't you tell me then?" 

The Earl looked somewhat embarrassed but Robert spoke up. "He didn't know." 

"That's the truth, Guy. Robert didn't tell me at the time." 

Gisburne's face twisted into a sneer. "Well, that's hardly surprising. The only thing I don't understand is why he told you at all?" 

The Earl was angry. "To save your life, Guy! Despite your being his enemy, he wanted to save you from the headsman because of what you are to each other." 

"I see," Guy spoke very softly. "And when did he tell you?" 

"I don't remember exactly." 

Guy turned to the outlaw. "Well, Wolfshead?" he snarled. "When was it? As soon as you heard I was in gaol – where incidentally you put me! Or was it perhaps a little bit later than that?" 

Robert looked confused. "Well, yes. It was a little later. I…I…needed time to…" His voice trailed off. 

"Yes," Gisburne spoke with bitter satisfaction. "Needed time to think, time to decide, did you want me as your brother or not?" 

"Guy." The Earl's voice was almost pleading. "That's not fair." 

"And you?" The voice was edged with ice. "How long did you take to decide? A week? A month? Well, whatever it was it was too long." 

He sheathed his sword and walked over to take his horse's bridle. 

"Had I reached her in time things might have been different, but now it's my turn to decide." 

He mounted up. 

"And I say nothing has changed." His voice was thick with scorn. "To the man who let my mother suffer for years protecting his good name, I say you are not my father. I have need of none. And to you, Robin Hood – " He spat the name. "The next time I meet you – look to your life." And with a cry he spurred his horse into the woods. 

Robin and the Earl were nearly halfway back to Sherwood by the time Scarlet and Nasir caught up with them. 

"Where's Gisburne, then?" demanded Scarlet, looking around. "Don't tell me you've let 'im escape again!" 

"Looks like it, Will," answered Robin sheepishly, with only a quick glance at his father. 

"You're useless, you are!" He looked a Nasir in disgust. "Nobles, eh?" 

Robin laughed and clapped Will on the shoulder. "Never mind, Will. Next time it'll be your turn." 

They spent the rest of the journey back to the camp pretty much in companionable silence, and the light was starting to fade to a soft gold, and the air turn colder, as they arrived. 

"They're here!" Much's excited voice rang out and he leapt out from his hiding place to escort them into the camp. "Robin! Robin!" 

"Hello, Much!" Robin ruffled the lad's hair affectionately as he dismounted wearily. It had been a very long day. 

Much was beaming from ear to ear, his face suffused with happiness. 

"What is it?" The boy was obviously bursting with some news. 

"You'll see, Robin, you'll see!" He grinned delightedly. And as they entered the clearing, lit from above by the dying light of the sun and the sharp, bright light of a new moon, he did see. Standing at the edge of the fire, the glow suffusing her blazing hair, was Marion. 

"Marion," he breathed, hardly daring to believe it was her until she came forward, took his hands in hers, and gently kissed him. "I'm home, Robin, home to stay." And he felt such a rush of happiness, that the whole world seemed at that moment to be as warm and safe as Sherwood. 

Later that night, once again cradling his love softly in his arms, after so many nights of dreams, he asked her why she had returned. 

She smiled mysteriously. "It was all Gisburne's doing." 

"Gisburne?" The name evoked strange feelings still, but they were not confused anymore. The future was clear: the path had been chosen, and walk it they must. 

"Yes," answered Marion. "It's strange but even he has someone to love him, someone who would suffer pain and fear for him. How could I do anything less for you, who are so much more deserving?" 

He looked at her, troubled. 

"Although if you don't kiss me this minute, I may change my mind again." She grinned impishly and he bent his head, laughing, to fulfil her command.


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue 

"God's teeth it's hot!" Gisburne cursed as he dismounted in the courtyard of Nottingham Castle, his feet crunching on the first fallen leaves of this most unseasonably hot autumn day. "Any word from the Sheriff yet, Captain?" 

"Yes, my lord." The man hurried to keep pace with Sir Guy as he strode into the hall. "He will be another week in London, at least." 

"Good!" Gisburne shed his heavy surcoat and looked around in distaste at the crowded hall. His head was starting to pound. "I'm retiring to my chambers, Captain. Send up some wine and something to eat." 

"Yes, my lord." The man was hesitating. 

"Well, spit it out, man!" 

"There's a woman to see you, my lord." 

"A woman?" Sir Guy snapped. "What sort of woman?" 

"Er, well…em…" 

"Oh, come on, come on! Young, old, pretty, ugly? What kind of woman?" 

"Not young my lord, and not pretty either." He looked round sheepishly. "But respectable-like, no peasant, although she does have a goat with her. She says it's important." 

It was always important. "Oh, very well. Send her up along with the wine." With any luck it wouldn't be so important that she'd want to see him in private." 

But it was. When the wine arrived, in the blessed cool and quiet of his private quarters, she did too, a sturdy, no-nonsense matron swathed in linen and encumbered by a large basket. She waited sternly for the servant to leave – even checking the door to see that he wasn't eavesdropping. 

"So…Mistress?" 

"Mistress Fletton," she replied stoutly, examining him with great dissatisfaction over her heavy burden. 

"And how is it I may help you, Mistress Fletton?" replied Gisburne with exaggerated courtesy, pouring himself a welcome cup of wine and slouching back in his chair. 

She bent laboriously, placed her basket on the floor and rummaged a purse from within the depths of her clothing. "I am sent from my mistress, whom I nursed as a child and loved as my own when her mother died. Here is the token I am to give you as proof." 

She held out a wad of cloth. Placing his wine aside, Gisburne rose to take it, and unwrapped it warily to discover Gisla's silver pin. His face tightened. Despite the passage of many months since he saw her led away on her wedding day, and flinging himself wholeheartedly into his work, the wound was scarcely scabbed. "What is it? What's happened? Is she all right?" he demanded. 

Mistress Fletton took a deep breath and launched into what was obviously a carefully learned speech. "My mistress was recently brought to childbed in the Priory at St. Morvens, where she was making a pilgrimage. Although she is safe and well, my Lord FitzAllen was saddened to hear that the child, who was a boy, had arrived too early and had not survived the birth." 

Sir Guy's face twisted with anger. "And you were sent here to tell me this?!" 

"No, my lord." Mistress Fletton's florid face revealed her impatience. "I was sent here to ensure that history doesn't repeat itself." She bent, drew back the covering of the basket, and gently retrieved a bundle which she held out to him. 

The crumpled face of a sleeping infant was just visible among the snug wrappings. Gisburne's eyes widened in confusion. "But…but…you just said the child had died?" 

The nurse raised her eyes heavenward with a sigh of exasperation. "No. I said that FitzAllen was sorry to hear that it had died." 

Sir Guy's face still registered incomprehension. "Then it wasn't early after all…but…." 

The baby opened his eyes sleepily and looked around, his blue eyes still unfocused, and Gisburne suddenly understood. 

"Oh." His face was unreadable. 

"Well, go on then." Mistress Fletton thrust the bundle into his arms, and turned towards the door. 

"Wait!" The panic in Guy's voice was unmistakable. "Where are you going?" 

"Oh, don't fret!" Mistress Fletton laughed. "I'm just off to fetch some milk for the wee bairn. Tomorrow I'll find a good wet nurse and you can arrange our escort to Gisburne." 

"Gisburne?" 

"Well, surely this isn't a suitable place for bringing up the boy?!" 

"Oh, yes, I suppose not." 

She left the room, chuckling to herself, and left him alone with his strange new responsibility. 

Cradling him carefully, he walked to the open window. Outside, trees wavered in the dry heat, their leaves crimson and gold in the yellow light, but in Gisburne's mind's eye, they were bare and silvered, and the air was filled with snow.   
  


_The End_


	10. Background

Background: For anyone not familiar with the Robin of Sherwood TV series, here's all the background you need for this story.

Merrie Men: Robin Hood (Robert, son of the Earl of Huntingdon), Marion, Little John, Will Scarlet, Nasir, Tuck and Much. Herne: Robin's mystical forest guide.

Baddies: Robert de Rainault, Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham; Abbot Hugo (his brother); Sir Guy of Gisburne, (his steward); King John.

Two Robins: Robert of Huntingdon is the second Robin Hood, the first (a peasant, Much's foster-brother and Marion's husband) having been killed by the Sheriff at the end of the second series. 

The Big Secret: Sir Guy is illegitimate and his father is the Earl of Huntingdon. Only Robin Hood and Tuck know this. Guy and the Earl are both in the dark.

The Time of the Wolf: In this final episode of the Robin of Sherwood TV series, King John commandeered all the villagers' grain for his army, leaving them to face the prospect of starvation in the winter. Robin Hood successfully raided the granary and stole the grain back while it was in the care of the Sheriff. The Sheriff blamed Sir Guy who fled and was captured by a Norse cult called 'The Sons of Fenris', headed by the evil Gulnar. He elected to join them. They capture The Sheriff.

In an effort to defeat Herne, Gulnar creates a doppelganger of Robin. The two Robins fight and the evil one is killed. Marion sees the body and believing Robin to be dead, she takes refuge in the Abbey. When Gulnar is defeated the Sheriff and Sir Guy find the body of the fake Robin and take it to the King, but it turns back to clay. 


End file.
